


After the shawarma (because you know it doesn't end there)

by curiouslyfic



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 12:13:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiouslyfic/pseuds/curiouslyfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is shawarma and fanboy memorabilia and Clint breaks a few rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the shawarma (because you know it doesn't end there)

**Author's Note:**

> Er, hello. I'm told there's a post-credits scene with the shawarma but I haven't seen it, so the one here is accidental AU. 
> 
> Written for hypertwink@LJ, who wanted Clint/Coulson kissyfic. Um. Not *actually* kissyfic, but know that I tried. 
> 
> Much love for the beta to wantsunicorns@LJ.

Clint knows before they go for shawarma, says they need an extra seat and ignores everything but the look Natasha gives him when he makes it happen. Stark and Cap and Banner think Clint’s crazy or whatever, maybe that Natasha knocked him too hard trying to get his brain back online, but Natasha knows what he’s saying. 

His hot ass Phil Coulson’s dead. Just not possible. Fury can say whatever he wants about Clint’s favorite handler going out with a stack of fanboy memorabilia in his pocket, Clint knows it’s crap. 

Natasha must, too. She knows Coulson. Stark says he does and Stark’s blonde — Pepper? Really? That’s a name now? Okay — Stark’s lady friend seems to know Phil, too, and when she says she’s sorry to hear about Agent Coulson, Clint just nods at her. Nice of her to try and all but really, she can’t have known him very well. 

Director Fury isn’t technically invited to the shawarma thing but he’s never been one to let a little thing like that bother him and when he shows up, Stark looks betrayed. Like _that_ ’s who Clint needs the extra chair for. Clint opens his mouth to say something, he’s still not sure what, and closes it again when Natasha kicks his ankle under the table. 

Clint bares his teeth at her, something he knows she’ll read for the self-restraint it is. Clint could take or leave the whole rest of this initiative but Natasha…no. Natasha’s in his life now like no one else is ever going to be, as in deep as Coulson in her own way. 

Shawarma is awkward enough that Clint hopes it won’t happen again. Cap’s not much of a talker outside do-gooder, moto stuff — which Clint really doesn’t need to hear right now — and Banner doesn’t say much that’s not science or thinly veiled references to the _other guy_ , which gets a bit grating after a while. Clint doesn’t really need the reminder that the guy sitting by his elbow could go apeshit in a heartbeat if he stubs his toe or whatever. 

Stark’s, well, _Stark_. Natasha meets Clint’s look with something other people probably take as docility; it’s not, it’s smugness and victory and the promise that she has Tony Stark’s number already. 

Clint eats his shawarma, keeps up with the conversation, pretends he doesn’t see Director Fury watching him like Clint’s a puzzle Director Fury needs to figure out. 

Clint’s pretty sure Natasha’s the only one who knows how much it bothers Clint not to have an open seat for Coulson if/when he shows up. 

:: 

To piss Stark off, Clint makes a point of calling Director Fury “Sir” every chance he gets. Natasha’s face and posture don’t change at all, but Clint can tell she’s laughing her ass off on the inside. 

:: 

Agent Phil Coulson stays dead — or whatever passes for it around here — until Director Fury gets the whole team back to S.H.I.E.L.D. for a debrief, at which point he suggests they might want to stop by medical before they leave. Stark swings into action like it’s a corporate negotiation and he’s just found himself with the upper hand. Cap just looks gut-punched by something; Clint hopes it’s guilt. Banner mumbles and nods and spends a lot of time looking anxiously at the table. Thor booms out something joyous about the strength and courage of Midgardian warriors. 

Natasha’s eyelashes flutter once. She must be pleased. That’s pretty happy for Natasha, and maybe even a little surprised. 

Clint’s just glad he found time to swing by one of those shitty tourist traps before they left New York. He’d hate to go in empty-handed. 

:: 

As expected, Agent Phil Coulson is most definitely not dead. He’s sitting up in his hospital cot and eating green jello like it’s actual food, he’s nodding agreeably at whatever Agent Hill’s saying and he’s wearing his stark white tape and bandaging almost like a crest. 

Clint doesn’t even understand how much he’s needed to see this — or something like it — until he does. Because it’s one thing to know deep down that the story Natasha and Director Fury fed him sounded wrong but it’s something else entirely to see _proof_. 

Clint wonders if Natasha’s taken it upon herself to give them a minute alone. He wouldn’t put it past her. 

Agent Hill looks between them as the conversation fades. Coulson’s a prim bit of prissiness on his cot, as calmly collected as he always is and startlingly competent, even by his usual standards, and Clint sort of wants to hit him with the t-shirt for making Clint worry. 

Not that Clint would admit to worrying, but if he did, there’d be hitting for sure. T-shirts are pretty soft, he probably wouldn’t even get bitched out by the nurses. 

“I’ll see you later,” Hill finally says and Clint wants to roll his eyes at how long it’s taken her to get the hint. The only thing that stops him is Coulson’s gaze, that handler look on his face that promises Coulson’s already thought up responses to anything and everything Clint might do. 

Clint’s just here to drop off the t-shirt and congratulate the man on surviving. He really doesn’t want or need a lecture about it. 

Coulson’s still staring, even when they’re alone. It doesn’t look like staring the way most people do but Clint knows he’s being watched. 

“Picked you up a little something in New York,” Clint says, trying to make it sound as casual as it should. “Since you missed it and all.” 

Clint even tries a smile. Coulson nods once and turns back to his jello. “Thank you.” 

“It’s a Captain America shirt,” Clint says, then sort of wads it up as he pulls it out of its bag to toss it at Coulson’s chest. “Since you’re such a fan.” 

And okay, wow, that came way pissier than intended. 

Lesser mortals might have been surprised by the shirt flying at them, might have spilled their green jello or fumbled or whatever. Phil Coulson is no lesser mortal; he catches it one-handed before it can hit his bandages and sets out inspecting the shitty silkscreening job they’ve made of the Cap logo on the chest. 

Coulson opens his mouth, probably to be polite again, but Clint doesn’t want to hear it, so Clint cuts him off. “Figured you deserved a little something special for taking Loki on by yourself. Very Barton-esque.” 

Phil Coulson’s a smart guy. He must know Clint’s smile now is anything but polite. 

Coulson runs a hand over the silkscreened logo again, doesn’t look away from Clint for a long, intense moment. Clint kind of wants to leave, quickly, before anyone says anything to make this worse. 

“And you thought what I wanted was a Captain America shirt?” Usually Clint likes hearing Coulson’s handler voice. Right now, though, not so much. 

“You had collector’s cards, sir. That’s pretty self-evident.” 

Coulson sighs, a slightly deeper breath, and moves his hand just slightly towards the edge of his bed. It’s all the invitation Clint’s going to get here and he knows it, only Clint doesn’t want to move just yet. Fuck what he knew, he’s spent days hearing Coulson’s dead, spent hours of his life putting up with bland sympathy and shit because no one bothered to believe him. And through all of it, he’s had to deal with Cap’s ongoing guilt. 

Like _Cap_ got Coulson killed. Like all Coulson comes down to is that one fanboy autograph request Cap couldn’t manage. Like all those years of Clint and Natasha and their handler don’t mean anything, because Cap’s always going to be the golden boy in this initiative and his manpain’s always going to matter more. 

And wow, apparently Clint’s pretty pissed off about it. Huh. He wonders if Natasha knows he is. 

“Fine,” Coulson says quietly, more Phil than agent, and he actually pats the empty mattress beside him. “Is that what this is about? Me and Captain America?” The look Clint gets, though, is all agent assessment. “Have you talked to Director Fury?” 

Clint rolls his eyes. “About your brilliant plan to give us something to avenge? Yeah.” Clint doesn’t say it was a stupid plan but he doesn’t think he should have to. Anything that gets Phil Coulson killed, however temporarily, is a shitty plan. 

“He needed a reminder he’s a hero,” Clint hears, and okay, that was definitely Phil-off-the-clock. “Rogers. Captain America. We talked about it beforehand and decided in advance that if we ever needed to bring in the initiative for anything, somebody was going to have to play up to that. He’s a national icon, but there’s no way he knows how far that goes.” Phil frowns a shrug but has the sense not to move his shoulder. “He’s been away a long time, Clint. How could he possibly have wrapped his head around how many generations of Americans look up to him?” 

Okay, now Clint feels stupid. He’s a smart guy, too, he’s got perception and observation skills that put Stark’s targeting system to shame, but there’s something about Phil getting swoony about other heroes that fucks with his head. 

“So you don’t like your shirt, is what I’m hearing.” As smartass goes, it’s sad and Clint knows it but he’s already borderline here and the last thing he wants is to get mean with Phil now. 

Phil looks him over in mild reproach. Clint’s not sure how Phil makes it look so hot. 

“I can think of other heroes I’d rather have on my clothing.” 

“What about in your clothing? Any preferences there?” 

“I’d think past experience ought to be a clue.” 

If it weren’t for Phil’s rule that at work, he’s Coulson and Clint’s not allowed to touch, Clint would already be on the edge of his cot, filling his hands and stealing a kiss. That rule is really annoying right now, almost unlivable, but Clint’s got lots of practice faking self-restraint. 

So when Phil says, “Is there some reason you’re still halfway across the room?” like Clint’s over here by _choice_ , Clint can’t be sure it means what he wants. 

Phil’s got that smug little smirk thing going on so it probably does, but _Clint_ ’s not the one who set that rule. “Yeah?” he says, hopeful. 

Phil’s eyebrow lifts. “Well,” he says, in his special brand of smirky-officious. “I did just die.” 

That’s really all Clint needs to hear. He’s across the room in a heartbeat, perched on the edge of Phil’s cot, leaning in to cup Phil’s head in his hands carefully, soak up all that body heat and tease Phil’s mouth open to the happy beat of Phil’s pulse. 

~ f ~


End file.
